


Break in the Clouds

by fencer_x



Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: Ritsu, Rain, and No Regrets; expansion on the final few pages of Chapter 10





	Break in the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> I found Chapter 10 to be so overwhelmingly amazing, I just had to embellish the final few pages. There are, strictly speaking, no spoilers, and you absolutely do not have to have read Chapter 10 in order to appreciate this; it's entirely from Takano-san's point of view so he won't be spoiling any of Ritsu's thoughts here ;) However, all dialogue is lifted straight from the pages of the chapter.

You'd give anything to know what's going on inside his head right now.

It's pouring outside of this little strip of eave you've sequestered yourselves under, and the backsplash from the downpour just beyond the tip of your nose has soaked the bottom half of your pants through. You can feel your socks squelching damply inside your shoes when you shift your weight, and your frown deepens.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him having what must be an _epic_ mental battle with himself, cheeks flushing, eyes clenched tight, lips quivering, casting glances at you that he probably thinks you don't notice but _oh you notice_ , just like you notice every little thing he does. How he invariably swallows a lump in his throat whenever you step within striking distance, how he shrinks in on himself just a bit whenever your fingers brush (on purpose, of course) when you hand him materials at his desk, how his eyes grow dark with passion even as he protests (in ever-decreasing fervency) " _Ta—Takano-san, don't_... _please, we can't..._ " and you just want to shake him sometimes and remind him that there's _absolutely no reason_ you can't, because you _love him_ , haven't you said that a dozen times over already?

If he doubted you before, you can understand it; you were in a bad place, your parents were driving you up the wall with their constant bickering, and it felt like no one—no one but _him_ —understood you or even _cared_ about you enough to ask the time of day. But now—now it's different, completely different, and you've long since realized what you had, what you lost, and exactly what you need to do to get it back and _keep it_ this time. Yet each time, he rebuffs your advances, whether it's by a roll of his shoulder to remove your hand or slapping you away when your fingers itch to brush through his hair, or worst of all—when you think you've got him, when he's being so agreeable and you're achingly hard from the way he's whining your name and thrusting into your mouth...and then it's over and he's curled up on his side, putting you at his back and reminding you _you're not wanted_.

 _"Do you make a habit out of sleeping with guys you hate multiple times?"_ you asked him once, and you know that he's not that type, that in all likelihood it's more that he feels _obligated_ to go along with whatever you push on him, but you can't help the little prickling in your chest of hope that maybe, maybe you have some small chance to win him back, with sheer stubbornness and expressions of your own feelings at every turn. You'll hem him in until he _has_ to acknowledge you—and either reject or accept you. That it will come down to such a binary, though, scares you more than fills you with hope.

If he knew the kind of sway he held— _still holds_ —over you, you're not sure what he'd do with it. You're just a little bit grateful that while he probably _does_ know, he refuses to acknowledge it.

You catch him glancing at you again, _staring_ a bit this time, trying to figure you out—and you want to laugh. You're not that complex at all. Your principles come down to: never let a project drop, get the issue out on time, never mix work and play, and Onodera Ritsu is the only person you'll ever truly love. While the final and penultimate ones have come into conflict of late, you're certain they'll settle over time. After all, there is no _play_ whatsoever about your feelings for _Ritsu_ , despite what he may have convinced himself.

He seems to realize he's been caught and jerks his gaze away, trying to focus on some far-off point in space and look like he's thinking about things like the deadlines bearing down on them all and how the laundry he put out that morning is probably soaking wet by now. Mundane things, and not the lead weights that have had his shoulders hunched in defeat all day.

You shift your weight and reach over to grab his hand, not gripping to hold him, but just to enjoy the feel of skin on skin as intimately as you can right now. He's let you fuck him in less-than-private settings before, but you're fairly sure that no matter how few people are out wandering around in this downpour, he definitely won't let you do him here. Still, you really want to touch him right now; maybe he'll let you jerk him off—you barely have time to register the idle thought before you feel his hand clench against your own and realize he's trying to hold himself back from curling his fingers and gripping tighter. You often miss the more innocent, naive person he used to be—but with things like this, you know he hasn't changed one iota, still just as nervous but excited to be touching you as he was all those years ago.

You stand there, the two of you, holding hands in silence and listening to the soft _shhh_ of the rain as it falls against the pavement, and you close your eyes and focus on the deeper, pulsing _badump_ in perfect, increasing rhythm. While you'd at first felt some sort of pride swelling in your chest, thinking you had set his pulse to racing by this simple action, you realize with growing conviction that it is, in fact, _your own_ heartbeat, thumping so loudly in your ears you can practically hear it over the storm. _Badump. Badump. Badump._

You laugh, a soft dry chuckle that cuts through the silence between the two of you. "That's one loud heartbeat there..."

He flinches and tries to pull his hand away, but your fingers are still entwined, and his palm is sweaty against your own. "I'm not—"

You cut him off smoothly with calm reassurance, bowing your head. "I know. It's mine." And you can feel the surge in his body heat through his grip, still firm and solid against yours. You glance at him beside you, watching him stare blankly at the pavement as realization of the passion he rouses in you washes over him. Even if it makes him uncomfortable, your feelings for him, you can't help but feel just a tiny bit superior. You've long since come to terms with your love for him, unchanging and deeper than he can imagine for reasons you can't fully explain.

You can feel the urge to touch more rising within you, the sick guttering of your heart as it struggles to hold back your every urge to press him against the wall and slip your fingers under his coat, hiking up his shirt and skittering across the sensitive flesh of his stomach. It doesn't have to be all that _intimate_ , you remind yourself (not entirely convincingly)—at least not just yet. But your heart is about to burst from your chest if you don't satisfy it _somehow_ , and you lick your lips nervously. "Onodera."

He quickly glances over at you, and for a moment you see once again that wide-eyed, nervous little first-year, bubbling over with infatuation and excitement as he muttered that he liked you, he liked you, he liked you. And while Onodera is a far cry from _Ritsu_ , at least most of the time, your mind can't help blurring the lines until you can't say for sure that you aren't _glad_ it's turned out this way. That it wasn't all _worth it_ , if it meant you got to fall in love all over again with this person.

You bring your free hand around and brace two fingers along his jawline, steadying him as you lower your lips to his—but it turns out not to be necessary, as he instantly lets his lids drop and welcomes your kiss with more compliance than you could have hoped, mouth dropping open just like you taught him to so that you can brush your tongue against his. You're standing there, kissing Onodera in the rain, and he's _kind of_ kissing you back, and it's the _best_ kiss you've ever had.

Your breathing speeds up and your pulse is strong and loud in your ears again, and you pull back reluctantly, knowing that you probably look a little crazy—and you kind of are, because if you don't have every inch of this man pressed against you _post-haste_ , you're just going to explode, you're sure of it. You press a last peck against the corner of his lips, trying not to look as giddy as you feel, and jerk him along behind you as you race the final few hundred meters to your apartment complex. You want to walk slowly, want to enjoy this moment of quiet intimacy that Onodera seems content to share just now, but you just can't _wait_ any more. There will be other rainy days where the both of you forget umbrellas. Besides, you know Onodera wouldn't allow such a thing anyways—not because he's embarrassed for it (although that will certainly factor in), but because he's concerned your cold will come back. You idly wonder just how sick you'll have to be before he'll mother you himself instead of always letting Yokozawa do it. Not that Yokozawa will probably be coming over much in the near future...

You push all such dark thoughts from your mind and instead focus on the cold rain beating against you, the warm fingers clenched desperately against your own, and Onodera's labored breaths and flushed lips already forming protests: at your pace, your direction, your _obvious intentions_. The only thing that keeps your heart light through it all, though, is the steady slap of sneakers against pavement as he dutifully keeps pace behind you, leaving slack between your joined hands.

You almost don't want to take the elevator—you don't want to stop and catch your breath while waiting for the car to come, don't want to endure the tense silence up the twelve floors—but you know you'd pass out from exhaustion long before you reached your front door, and somewhere, someone is watching over you, because the elevator is waiting in the lobby, already there, and Onodera grabs your sleeve with his free hand after you press _12_ , looking very much like he wants to try and say again those words that were lost in the rain, ripped away by gale and deluge. He doesn't manage it, of course, lips flapping open and closed in inner turmoil, but you're grateful all the same for the effort and press another kiss against his lips, slowly and languidly pressing him against the rear of the car and shivering with the way his fingers clench tighter around your own, against your bicep.

When the doors open at _12_ , you spill out into the hallway, nearly slipping and cracking your skull because trying to walk and make out with Onodera at the same time is not something human bodies were designed to do (a flaw, if you ever saw one). You fumble with the keys in your pocket, praying you don't look to Onodera as nervously desperate as you feel; if he had an inkling of just how much you want him right now, he would throw up his barriers and start edging towards _1202_. But his hand is still captured in your own, his fingers still laced between your own, and before he can get out his first reconsidering, " _Takano-san_..." and try to sneak away, you've flung open the door and dragged him into the genkan.

He watches in horror as you don't even bother removing your shoes or coat, just start marching straight to the bedroom with him in tow, and _then_ come the protests. "Wait—Takano-san? _Taka—_ " You shut him up with another kiss, embracing him fully and forcing your mouth to his, which he accepts with a groan as you push him down onto his back on your bed.

Your pants have been tight around you for nigh on a half hour now, and finally surrounded by the privacy of four walls, you let yourself go. Your coat, heavy with rain and damp is the first thing to go, along with the shirt beneath it, just as soaked through. His mouth freed to once again babble inanely, Onodera starts on about the bed getting wet or something or other, and you blithely retort, "We're gonna get soaked ourselves; stop worrying." He _really_ knows how to break a mood.

He keeps going on about your cold coming back, trying to put up an altruistic front so that you don't catch on to just how much he wants this, too, and you finally can't take it any more, crawling on top of him and popping the top button on his coat. "Why do you go on about such stupid shit when you're supposed to be stripping?" He stops struggling, flushing deeply as if he hadn't realized oh _right_ , that _that_ was where this was all going, and it's so damned _cute_ that you can't resist the added, " _Idiot_." He's got much more respect for your self-control than you do.

You suppose he's through fighting, or too worn out from the rush to get here, because he offers no more protests as you pull off his coat and jacket, unbuckling his pants with one hand while you tweak a nipple with the other, loving the taste of his sweat on your tongue as you lave a path of kisses down his chest before settling against the crook of his neck, your favorite spot because your ear is right by his mouth and you can hear all his desperate cries as he tries to suppress his pleasure, the soft _Takano-san_ s on his lips, the choked whimpers when you pass your thumb over the tip of his cock just so and press down through the slick ring your fingers form.

He tries to ask you not to touch him like that—though he never says why—and you'd be more inclined to believe him if he weren't failing to keep himself from thrusting into your grip, hips wriggling against the bed as he tries to increase the friction. You give him what you know he needs, rather than what he thinks he wants, and he releases another strangled cry as you redouble your efforts.

You're so focused on your task, on making him feel good, that you barely notice his trembling hand reaching, slowly, for the hem of your pants, and belatedly realize that _shit_ he's taking initiative for once. You don't say anything for a moment, watching in awe as he tries to bring himself to touch you, but it takes too long for your passion-addled mind to handle, and you grunt out, "If you're gonna touch me, do it right." Of course, he immediately jerks his hand back, trying to rise up off the bed, and lets loose a stream of excuses and apologies. You roll your eyes and grab his wrist, guiding it to your crotch and pressing into the cup of his fingers and palm before easing down your hem to give him easier access. "Just—like this."

You feel the tension loosen in his arms when he makes contact, relief evident, and you cant your hips so he doesn't have to stretch as far, trying to keep your breathing from betraying how much this affects you. "Touch me..." you urge, voice rough with desire. "I want you to..."

He nods slowly, barely perceptibly, and you wonder if it's for you, or for himself, a reminder that he _wants_ to do this. You don't really care so much—about anything, really—because he's found a rhythm he likes, and you've matched it now against his own cock, and you're both slick with sweat and rain and semen and it feels _amazing_...but you want more. Know he wants it, too.

You're both too far gone, too close to your peaks, to give Onodera the sweet, gentle love-making he's enjoyed before. _Fucking_ is for when you can't hold yourself back and he's crying your name and it's hot and intense and full of abandon, and you know that while that's _nice_ , it'd be nicer still to go slow and languid and gentle, just hold him and whisper in his ear while you thrust about how perfectly tight he is, how good it feels pressed up against his back, how you never want to be inside of anyone else but him. But Onodera won't soon let you have that sort of relationship, you feel, and so you must satisfy yourself with these quick, feverish joinings.

The bed creaks with each pistoning thrust, in time with Onodera's own cries, and now he's got his hand over your own where you're still working his cock while you press him into the mattress. He lets his head fall back, arching with pleasure, and his breathing becomes a bit erratic, huffing out _god_ and _yes_ , and _please_ , and you can't hold back the soft chuckle. "That good, huh?" Which of course prompts him to slap his hands to his mouth, as if by doing so he might physically impede the traitorous noises leaking from it. You don't care; it's enough you get to see him undone like this. You shake your head, a smile on your face, and lean forward to cover his lips with your own while your hips pick up their frantic pace.

"Onodera," you whisper against his skin, just below his ear where he won't be able to miss it. "I love you..." Because if he won't say it himself, you'll say it enough for the both of you, as often as it needs to be said (and maybe a little more even).

You can hear the frown in his voice, but experience tells you he's not as put out as he sounds. "You never give up, do you?"

"Nope," you reply evenly, and press a softer kiss to his cheek, a stark contrast to the thrusts of your hips which have peaked in intensity as you meet your orgasm head on, snapping your hips against his own to impress your feelings upon him physically. In your hand, your feel his cock spasm and swell with heat before your fingers are coated in his climax, each milky ribbon slicking the way further for you to pull all the pleasure you can from him. You can only hope you've give him a fraction of the pleasure he's given you, in every sense.

You lie there, braced against him, waiting for your breathing to calm and trying to soak up all the warmth you can from him before he coldly shoulders you aside and wanders back to his own bed—but a moment passes, with no such effort, and you nearly jerk back in surprise when you feel tentative fingers brushing against your back, trembling as they play along your spine and wrap strong arms around you. Beneath you, Onodera closes his eyes and flinches, as if bracing for impact, and it is only by the greatest measure of self-control that you content yourself with a soft smile at his efforts, which warm you through more than any physical heat might, and embrace him, just holding him like you've wanted to do since standing under that eave.

His lips are soft and pliant underneath your own, and he's kissing you back like you wanted, like he can read your mind and know exactly what you desire most. It just makes you love him all the more to know that he's not doing it consciously.

Outside, the rain continues to fall, and he holds onto you tighter, as if wary this moment will be washed away in the night. You'd still give anything to know what's going on inside his head right now—but he's helped you bear the wait once again for him to come clean of his own accord. Whatever was lost, washed out by the rain will still be there when the sun comes out again, and you have but to be patient. You can wait forever for Onodera, and will take what you can get in the meantime.


End file.
